Conversations Between Ghosts
by MintSauce
Summary: Otherwise known as: that one where Ian may or may not be a ghost and Mickey doesn't know what the hell his life has turned into. For Billie :)


**This one is completely for Billie because it would not have been written without her! :)**

"What? You don't want to go see me?" Ian asked him, eyebrows raised as he just sat there and stared and Mickey so completely unashamedly. They stood in the bathroom and Mickey was staring into the mirror, trying to keep his eyes focussed on his own reflection and not the redhead standing behind him. There but not there.

His head hurt and he wanted nothing more than to put his fist through the mirror, but he and Ian were broken enough already without him putting cracks through their reflections, _weren't they?_

He ran the tap, listening to it gurgle and splutter before finally spitting out a thin trickle of water. He cupped his hands underneath it and watched the water cloud with dirt. And when he let it go, turning over his hand and rubbing a thumb over one of the letters on his fingers, he had to screw his eyes tight shut for reasons he didn't have a fucking clue about.

Maybe it was because the last person who'd done that was standing right behind him and he didn't want to have to think about the implications of that.

He splashed water over the back of his neck messily before turning off the faucet with a loud squeak.

"The fuck would I want to see you like that for?" he snapped back, staring at Gallagher in the mirror, "I'm sick of seeing your face here!"

Ian just looked at him, those fucking eyebrows still raised. It was like he thought he could see right through to Mickey's soul and see everything he was trying to hide.

"Could be closure for you, you ever think of that?" he asked, folding his arms across his chest and his foot tapped out a beat onto the linoleum floor that Mickey couldn't hear. He told himself he didn't want to. "A chance for you to admit some stuff."

Mickey bared his teeth, whipping around and glaring at Ian more, "Like fuck," he snarled at him, storming out because really, what else was he supposed to do? Wasn't like he could punch the guy or even just shoulder him out of the way like he wanted to.

Hell, he couldn't even stop Ian from following him. Not anymore.

* * *

"Really? You're going to go home with that guy?" Ian asked and Mickey would have said that he looked angry if he'd been paying attention beyond letting his glance flick over to Ian's smirk and away again, "You going to let him top you? Fuck you into the mattress?" Ian choked out a laugh that sounded equal parts disgusted and fake, "Him?" He scoffed and then his expression just dissolved again into something unfairly cocky, "Bet you ten bucks he has a tiny dick."

Mickey kind of prided himself on the fact that he managed to withhold from telling Ian to go fuck himself. But honestly, it's only because if he did it would have been beyond weird, he's the only one that can see the redhead after all.

After that he tries not to think about Ian standing there and staring at him as he scratches at the guy's back, pulling on his hair when he deep throats him and screwing his eyes tight shut as the guy bends him over in some dingy motel room.

The sheets are scratchy and smell like piss and when Mickey's orgasm hits him it's pathetic really and it took way too long to get to. The guy who's name he was told, but doesn't remember flopped over onto his back panting like he'd run a marathon and Mickey wanted to roll his eyes and make some comment about how it really wasn't as good as the expression on the guy's face says he thinks it was. Except he swallowed down those comments because Ian's stood there across the room looking at him like he knew exactly what was going through Mickey's head.

Mickey swung his legs over the edge of the bed and leans forwards to grab his boxers, scratching his nose with his middle finger in Ian's direction as he did so. The redhead threw his head back and laughed at that and Mickey almost wanted to smile.

The guy turned his head towards him and asked confused, "What you leaving?" as Mickey stood up to tug on his boxers, "Thought we could go for round two in a bit."

Mickey laughed because honestly he just couldn't fucking help himself. He steps into his jeans and checks his wallet and phone are still in his pockets. He's got his shirt and jacket in his hands and is ready to walk out the door when he looked at the guy again. "Yeah not going to fucking happen," he told him, snorting loudly.

And if on the walk home he looked down at his feet and focussed on cracks in the sidewalk, it was because he was tired as fuck and not because he was desperately trying to ignore the redhead laughing beside him.

* * *

"The hell you doing here Gallagher?" Mickey asked him, rubbing sleep out of his eyes and staring at the figure sitting cross-legged at the bottom of his bed.

Ian just shrugged. "Dunno," he said, scratching his nails through his short ginger hair and from the way one of his eyebrows was raised Mickey knew that the guy was judging his morning hair. "Maybe this is the only place I ever really needed to come?"

And trust Gallagher to try to be cryptic first thing after Mickey had woken up.

Mickey scowled. "The fuck you talking about?" he asked, all of his thoughts starting to realign and make him realise just how fucking weird this whole scene was, "And how the hell did you even get in here?" Because as far as he was aware he'd locked his door last night, so unless Gallagher had found a new talent in picking locks – which he knew he hadn't, because Mickey had tried to teach him once and he was shit – then this should have been fucking impossible. "Hell how did you fucking find me for that matter!"

This wasn't Chicago. Mickey hadn't been back to Chicago in a long time.

Mickey maybe would have been angrier if he hadn't been so damn confused and it hadn't been first thing in the fucking morning. And maybe he wouldn't admit it, but he was a little concerned too. He looked at Ian for another moment, "You been dropped on your fucking head or something?"

"Probably," Ian admitted, or at least it felt like an admission even though his expression was strangely blank all of a sudden, "Last thing I remember was a bomb going off, so it's entirely possible."

It was only then that Mickey realised Gallagher was still in full combat uniform. And maybe he would have accused him of being on something again if when he'd tried to kick Gallagher off the bed, his foot hadn't gone straight through his stomach.

Ian just looked at him, seeming almost amused, "Oh yeah, did I not mention that I think I'm dead?"

Mickey didn't think it made him a complete pussy that he threw up at those words. Although he could have done without Ian laughing at him.

* * *

"Seriously?" Ian asked him, raising an eyebrow and folding his arms over his chest and Mickey absolutely didn't look at the way Gallagher's muscles flexed underneath his freckled skin. He didn't, _really_!

Mickey snorted, "Not like you ain't seen it all before." And he pulled his already hard dick out of his boxers just to prove that point, of how little of a fuck he gave, giving it a slow, languid stroke just for good measure. "Besides it's been a while since I got any without you glaring at me, so this is all on fucking you."

Ian just scowled at him, far too obviously refusing to look down.

"This is really fucking childish," Ian told him and Mickey could see how white his knuckles were where he was gripping his own arms. A muscle jumped in Ian's jaw and Mickey arched his back and grasped, thumb flicking over the head of his dick. This almost felt like a victory, just knowing he could still get Ian all worked up.

He wondered if a ghost could get hard.

"Fucking leave then," Mickey bit out around a moan, being loud just because he could and just because Ian was standing there.

Ian didn't leave though, he stood at the foot of the bed the entire time, his eyes on Mickey's face and Mickey's orgasm hit him like a thousand ton truck, knocking the air straight out of his lungs and for a moment he felt almost weightless.

"You feel better now?" Ian asked him, voice a combination of amused and dead-sounding.

Pain slithered through Mickey's ribcage at those words and he doubted Ian even had said it intentionally. But suddenly all Mickey could think about was Ian's skin splitting under his fists, under his boot and the thought of his orgasm tasted sour in the back of his throat now.

* * *

"You owe me ten bucks," Ian told him, lips stretched wide around a shit eating grin and Mickey hated how that always made him think of what Gallagher's lips had looked like stretched around his cock.

"Fuck off," Mickey told him, rolling his eyes, "Like fuck I'd give it to you even if you could fucking spend it." And like fuck he'd admit Gallagher was right about the size of that guy's dick, no way.

* * *

"I bet you wish I could touch you," Ian said low, right in his ear, "Don't you Mickey, bet you wish it was my hand wrapping around your cock like that, jerking you off."

Mickey made a strangled noise in the back of his throat, eyes opening and looking at Ian where he stood just beside him. The guy who's hand it actually was dropped down to his knees, hand still working on Mickey's cock until it was replaced by his mouth.

"You wish it was me doing that?" Ian continued, "Aren't you just thinking about how I could do it so much better?" Ian braced a hand on the wall by Mickey's head and Mickey hated how he didn't understand why that wall could know Ian's touch but he couldn't.

Not that he wanted it, necessarily. It was just the principle of the thing.

"I know exactly how you like it, he doesn't," Ian kept saying, right into his ear, "I know how you like it when I suck you straight down, let you push your hips up into my face, try and fucking choke me." He smirked as Mickey failed at swallowing down his moan, his hands falling flat against the wall behind him because he wasn't going to give Ian the satisfaction of knowing he was right about what Mickey wanted him to do.

Or maybe it was because the guy's hair just wouldn't feel right, slightly curly and wild all over his head, not so short Mickey could barely get a grip.

"You thinking about it now, Mick?" Ian asked him and for the life of him Mickey didn't know if it was the words or just that husky edge to his voice that had him coming undone at the seams, "You thinking about how I'd be sliding a finger into your ass, just with spit because you fucking like the burn and it makes your hips stutter like you don't know if you want to fuck my throat or press back on my finger."

Out of the corner of his eye and somehow through the haze of lust in his brain, Mickey saw Ian's fingers twitch like he wanted to touch Mickey.

"You thinking about how I'd let you come down my throat?" Ian asked him, "How I'd let you do that and then flip you over and fuck you so hard you come again too soon, too quick that it fucking _hurts_ but you've never felt anything so good."

Mickey had almost forgotten how dirty Ian's mouth could be, how much it turned him on. And he hated himself just a little bit for forgetting.

His mouth opened in a soundless scream as he came, his eyes screwed shut and an old image of Ian on his knees before him, eyes looking up at Mickey as he swallowed around Mickey's cock was burned into the inside of his eyelids. Beside him he heard Ian laugh, low and husky, "You know you always think about me, Mick; you can't even fucking deny it."

* * *

It was awkward as fuck, sitting across from Mandy in a shitty little café drinking coffee that tasted like mud and feeling like his heart was about to beat right out of his fucking chest any minute. And his sister just sat there opposite him like this wasn't weird at all, like Mickey wasn't breaking inside.

"What you not going to tell her about me?" Ian asked him, sitting beside Mickey with his long legs stretched out underneath the table.

Mickey wanted to tell him to fuck off, but he kept his mouth shut, tried to pretend like he wasn't even there.

"I think I saw your ex-wife the other day," Mandy told him, smiling around the rim of her mug as she raised it to her lips. It was some crap that smelt far too strongly of cinnamon and all Mickey could think was since when the hell did his sister like the taste of cinnamon?

Mickey raised his eyebrows and tried not to sound like a complete asshole when he asked, "And I'd care why?"

And he definitely didn't smirk when Ian muttered under his breath, "Fucking commie skank." He'd probably thought Mickey hadn't heard him and he'd let the guy believe that for now. Well, probably forever actually, because facing the fact Mickey had heard him and knew exactly why he'd said it would probably open a whole fucking can of worms Mickey didn't want to.

Mandy just shrugged, "It's called making conversation, assface, it's a thing adults do."

Beside him, Ian laughed, "Yeah Mickey, it's called conversation." And Mickey wanted to hit him or yell at him for being so fucking childish, especially when he could see just how much Ian was enjoying this. "You do know what that is right?" Ian's fingers drummed soundlessly against the table. "Then again, you'd still live off of Jell-O if you fucking could, so you're not exactly an adult are you!" Ian smirked, "Plus you were watching Spongebob the other day."

Like Gallagher hadn't been watching it too!

"So, you seeing anyone?" Mandy asked him when he didn't say anything else.

Mickey stared at her for a minute, "No."

"Aww come on Mick, don't you want to tell her about all those nameless guys you've been letting bend you over recently?" Ian asked, sarcasm and bitterness laced thick in his voice.

Mickey didn't know when the fuck being a ghost had made Gallagher so fucking annoying, but he was torn between hating it and finding it amusing. It was like all the spitefulness Ian had held in before was finally coming out.

Was probably about time.

"Well me and Lip are thinking about getting married," Mandy told him, like he cared, "I'll send you an invite to the wedding."

"Okay," Mickey said, because he knew she probably wouldn't. Like Lip would let him be there. No, that would never happen.

He could feel Ian watching him and tensed slightly. "You know all you'd have to do is tell her you'd come or probably be able to book it off work and she'd fight to let you come," he told him, "She doesn't hate you like you think she does, she's your sister."

And that was a whole lot of shit Mickey didn't want to think about, because he deserved none of that shit. He didn't deserve a fucking invitation and he definitely didn't deserve to have Mandy care still despite everything.

Mickey didn't know what else they talked about, but fifteen minutes later he was saying, "I have to go, Mandy," and standing up from the table, taking in the sight of his sister. She looked good. Healthy. Happy, although he could still see the ghost of sadness in her eyes.

There was pity there too when she looked at him.

"Okay," she replied, standing up and coming around the table to hug him. Her arms wound around his neck and she smelt of cinnamon when he pressed his face into her hair ever so slightly.

He wanted to be sick. He didn't deserve this.

"I'll see you around Mickey," Mandy said, sounding almost affectionate, but she looked sad when she reached out to brush a finger along his cheek. He wanted to tell her to quit it, but didn't, because they both knew that what she'd just said was probably bullshit.

Still he nodded.

"See, told you she still loves you," Ian said as they walked out the door and Mickey felt like he just wanted to break down.

* * *

"The fuck is wrong with you Mickey!" Ian yelled at him, getting right up in his face in a way that made Mickey angry because he hated that he couldn't push Ian away and he hated even more than he couldn't feel Ian's breath on his face like he should have been able to.

He snarled low under his breath, stalking away because what else was he able to do?

"You can't just fucking treat people like that!" Ian was still yelling at him, following him through the apartment, "Are you screwed up in the head or something, seriously! What makes you think that's okay?"

Mickey laughed and the sound was horrible and twisted and humourless. "You've met my fucking family Gallagher, how the fuck can you think anything isn't wrong with me!" he growled out and then realised how self-pitying that sounded, how pathetic so he added, "And where the fuck do you get off lecturing me, you're the one that stole your brother's fucking diploma just because I broke your little heart!"

Ian's eyes flashed and he looked like he wanted to hit Mickey more than anything.

"Fuck you," he ground out, fists clenched at his side.

"No you know what, fuck you!" Mickey shouted back, screaming because he didn't want to hear the voices in his head that kept chanting how Ian was right, he was a fuck up. Always had been, always would be. "I'm such a fuck-up, then do what I've wanted you to do all this time and fucking _leave me alone_!"

And he grabbed the nearest thing to him, a plate, off the side of the counter and threw it straight at Ian. It soared straight through him because the redhead ducked too slow and the sound of it smashing against the bottom of the wall behind Ian was loud in the apartment. It was loud even over the sound of Mickey's heartbeat pounding in his ears.

He'd never been so glad for Gallagher being a ghost though before, because the thought of making Ian bleed again like he had done that time was enough to make him feel sick.

Instead all he could do was stalk into his bedroom and slam the door behind him, praying that Ian would stay in the other room for just a little bit. Just a little while. But then when he did, Mickey had never wanted him to stand around making stupid comments so much in his life.

* * *

It was early in the morning when they found themselves sitting side by side on the couch. Not touching, obviously, because they couldn't. Not that they would have done if they could though, or at least that was what Mickey told himself on repeat in his head.

They watched the third Die Hard in the end, because Mickey never wouldn't be willing to watch some Samuel. L. Jackson. The dude was badass.

And he told himself the scene wasn't familiar at all. It certainly didn't make him think of Van Damme, not even a little.

* * *

Ian was sitting on his bedroom floor when he woke up, back against the door like he could stop Mickey from leaving if he wanted to. Except Mickey didn't do anything other than open his eyes and look at Ian. Just look at him.

He thought for just a moment he could pretend that there wasn't anything outside of this room and that nothing had ever changed at all. He thought he could pretend that they were still teenagers and stupid and crazy and he thought most of all he'd like to pretend that the camo Gallagher was wearing was nothing more than his ROTC uniform.

"You think we could have worked if maybe we'd been born in a different life?" Ian asked, his eyes sad and wide and still fucking beautiful as he stared through the pale gloom at Mickey.

And when their eyes met, Mickey couldn't have looked away if he wanted to.

He guessed it was early morning, not yet late enough for light to start filtering through his shitty curtains, but almost there. He'd always wondered what Ian's redhead would look like in a sunset and he wished it had always been nothing more than a fleeting though. He wished it hadn't been something he'd tried to picture in his head.

He wanted to tell Ian not to be so fucking sappy or cryptic or whatever the fuck he was this early in the morning, but when Mickey opened his mouth instead all that came out was, "I think we could still have worked in this one."

And Ian's eyes went wide like Mickey had just handed him his fucking heart and soul on a plate and then his lips turned up in a smile that was so understated Mickey thought it was fitting. Fitting that Mickey's one honest comment wouldn't be met by passion, but instead by just happiness.

"Yeah," Ian said after a minute, his knees raised now and his hands hanging between them and Mickey thought it would have been fitting for him to be smoking right then. He didn't know why. "I think the odds were just stacked against us from the beginning though."

Mickey let his mouth twist into a grimace of a smile, let himself look sad and open for just a moment. "Probably," he agreed, swallowing hard around the lump in his throat.

* * *

"You seriously think this is what I wanted? You dead and following me around every-fucking-where I go!"

"How would I know! It's not like you ever open up for even a second, so seriously Mickey, how the hell am I supposed to know?"

Mickey snorted. "We still on that? You can't still be so fucking heartbroken over that, Gallagher seriously!"

The redhead scowled at him, seeming to be scraping together all of his confidence for a moment. "Yeah because I'm likely to get over the probable love of my fucking life treating me like I'm nothing! Like all I ever was, was just a fucking _warm mouth_!"

Mickey choked on air for a moment, but whatever he wanted to say never made its way out. And maybe that had always been the problem.

"You fucking knew I had nothing to give you when it all started," he bit out eventually.

Ian stared at him. "Yeah I did, but you were the only one that acted like I wanted more from you than a fucking kind word once in a while."

"Well you're shit out of luck, I ran out of those a long time ago."

"I don't think you ever fucking even had any," Ian spat at him, bitingly honest, "And what the fuck makes you think I still want _anything_ from you!"

Mickey snarled and spat out, "Well you're still fucking here aren't you!"

And well, then suddenly he wasn't.

* * *

He wasn't there and Mickey felt like he was drowning. He felt like he was choking and gasping and he didn't know what direction to head in to find air. He felt alone and like everything was too silent and he kept opening his eyes each morning and searching the edges of his room for a sarcastic smile, kept waiting to hear a stupid comment or a low laugh.

It never came though. Nothing ever came. It was all just silence. Pressing down on him, like a weight inside his ribcage. A weight that was too heavy, heavier than him and someone had tossed him into a pool of water a long time ago.

Mickey couldn't breathe.

He also couldn't wait to hit the bottom.

* * *

It had been four weeks since Gallagher had first started following him around and he'd disappeared for three days. Just up and out of the blue. They hadn't even yelled at each other in under a week or anything.

Mickey told himself he genuinely was sick when he called into work saying he was throwing up. Which was true. He just wasn't about to admit that it was more out of worry and panic than any actual stomach bug.

Still, he sounded shit enough for it to be believable, so maybe he was ill after all.

And when Gallagher turned back up he acted like there hadn't been any space of time missed at all, creeping up behind Mickey and making him drop a bottle of beer he was holding and then proceeding to laugh at Mickey for a good five minutes. Apparently the look on his face was something worth having a picture of.

Mickey didn't tell him he'd missed him, just spun some stupid excuse about drinking too much when Ian asked about why the bathroom stank of puke.

* * *

"The hell you doing in here, Gallagher?" Mickey asked when he heard the sounds of Gallagher moving about on the other side of the shower curtain, "You seriously being this clingy?"

Even though he couldn't see it, he just knew Ian was rolling his eyes.

The next minute Ian's head popped _through _the curtain and that never wouldn't be weird. Mickey didn't know why he wanted to cover up the soap in his hand more than he did his cock when Ian gave him a blatant once over.

"Just wanted to see for myself that you actually can shower," he commented with a smirk, ducking back out with a laugh when Mickey flipped him off, "Clean's a good look for you Mick," he heard his retreating voice yell back.

And Mickey didn't smile at that, _he didn't._

* * *

He didn't let the guy kiss him, just bit as his neck and worked his belt before bending over and pressing his forearms into the brick wall of an alley. He screwed his eyes shut and didn't complain when the guy didn't use enough lube. He was silent as the guy thrust away inside of him, as he wrapped a hand around Mickey's cock and jerked him until he spilled all over the stranger's fingers and the brickwork in front of him.

The orgasm tasted sour in his mouth.

And when he opened his eyes he realised he'd screwed them so tightly shut that he could see spots dancing across his vision now.

There was still no Gallagher. He didn't really think he'd expected there to be.

* * *

Ian had come with him when Mickey went out for a beer with one of the guys he worked construction with. Of course he had. What was surprising though was he'd done it with nothing more than a comment of, "You being sociable Mick, you actually know how to do that?"

And Mickey had just snorted and rolled his eyes, because he felt in a weirdly good mood today for some reason.

The bar wasn't anything more than a shithole that reminded Mickey a little too much of the Alibi, but he didn't complain too much at having to sit down and have a pint with the guy from work, who'd brought along some of his friends.

Or maybe they'd just been there anyway. Mickey didn't really know or care to ask.

They drank and played darts and Mickey even laughed once. It didn't really even bother him that Ian was sitting there watching him the entire night, laughing when Mickey got hit on and mumbled some excuse to the guys about her not being his type.

That was the only time Ian had made a comment, saying, "But she's ginger Mick, I thought that _was_ your type."

And Mickey rolled his eyes into his beer because he didn't want Ian to look too closely into how, yeah he was right.

Other than that though, Gallagher just sat in silence and watched Mickey, a look of almost happy pride written all over his features all night. And Mickey could practically hear what he was thinking even though he didn't say it.

_Well, he can socialise like a human being after all_.

* * *

Sometimes Mickey wondered if this would be what living with Gallagher could have been like if everything hadn't gone to shit. Except, obviously with less Ian being able to walk through stuff, less Ian following him around and making snide comments about things and a hell of a lot more sex. But still, he wonders and he doesn't think he would have been half bad actually.

The days when they aren't arguing and just sit and watch some old movie, usually where shit blows up are nice. Mickey found himself wanting more of them.

And then he wanted to throw up, because what the fuck was the point in that train of thought?

It could never happen, so it was just depressing really. But still, Mickey wondered.

* * *

It was some good shit. Mickey could acknowledge that much.

Still, even if it hadn't been he still would have snorted it, doing lines one after the other and then again as soon as the affect started to wear off. He didn't really feel much of anything after that. Just trashed his apartment for the third time in a row that week, throwing plates at the walls and trying to imagine what they'd look like flying through someone that wasn't really there.

And it was fucking stupid. So incredibly stupid. Because Ian had never really been there in the first place, so he didn't know why it bothered him so much that he wasn't now. He didn't know why he was blowing his cash on drugs to snort just to get angry and start bar fights.

Maybe he thought getting punched in the head would make him start seeing Ian again. Maybe.

It didn't work though.

* * *

"Wait," Ian said as Mickey hand reached towards the radio's dials, "I like this song."

Mickey looked at him sideways, considered changing the station just because he could and Ian wouldn't be able to stop him, but then he would have to listen to Gallagher bitching for several hours with no ability to walk away.

And right then he realised that Ian wasn't even looking at him. He just had his head tipped back in his seat and his eyes closed as he mouthed along to the words. _Won't you look into my eyes, feel the pain and through your pride and find I am true_.

He opened his head and looked towards Mickey, lips still forming the shapes to the words and if Mickey listened hard enough he could hear the whisper of sound as Ian actually spoke them. _You're the one I can't deny and I'll never leave your side. I gave my life for you_.

And then it's Mickey's turn. He has to close his eyes, because sometimes it makes him ill to think about how Ian went to war because of him. He pushed Ian away and maybe the redhead would still be solid and real and Mickey could reach out and just fucking touch him if none of that had fucking happened.

_On and on we go, back to where this all began._

Damn how Mickey wished he could just go back. He really did. And Mickey didn't wish for a lot of things.

* * *

He feels almost like he's having a good day. He doesn't feel like the world's falling down around him so much, actually feels like he could be standing on solid ground. Which is a weird thought considering he had a hell of a hangover.

That is until he sees a flash of red out of the corner of his eye and turns so fast he almost gives himself whiplash. And he feels so fucking hopeful for just a moment, he's close to smiling. Except it's just a stupid little dog in a red sweater that an old lady is obviously trying to coddle to death.

Mickey throws up with a hand pressed against a wall and the world spinning around him. He doesn't even care that he got some of it on his shoes.

Turned out it wasn't such a good day after all.

* * *

"The fuck is the point in that?" Mickey asked as he watched some stupid ass movie about sparkly vampires and an emo chick with Mandy. He blamed the fact that he literally had _nothing_ else better to do. Gallagher was away for some ROTC retreat thing and Mickey felt like he was about to burst out of his skin because it just made him think of Ian going away to the army and stupid shit like that.

Mandy rolled her eyes at him, watching the girl jump off the cliff and start drowning. "She's in love assface and she just wants to see him again," she told him like he was an idiot.

"It's stupid," he said, biting at the side of his thumb.

Mandy punched him in the arm and he may or may not have winced a little bit. His sister was stronger than she fucking looked. "It's not stupid," she insisted and Mickey obviously wasn't going to explain to her that he'd only meant it was stupid because the werewolf dude was obviously the hotter option.

* * *

Mickey hates the fact that whatever he just smoked had him sitting in his almost bare kitchen hallucinating that a half rotten apple was talking to him and yet what he really wanted to be imagining wasn't there.

There was no redhead in an army uniform.

Nothing but bare worktops, a pile of dirty, cracked dishes in the sink and that bitchy goddamn talking apple sitting on his kitchen table.

* * *

He couldn't say how much he'd drunk, but it was probably enough to give him fucking liver failure. Not that he actually needed to worry about that sort of shit; but maybe it was the principle of the fucking thing.

He felt cold, goose bumps raised along his pale arms, but he'd been numb for a long time now anyway. He couldn't remember the last time he'd really fucking _felt_ anything. He didn't want to, because it probably wasn't a good memory.

The gun felt heavier in his hand than it ever had done before and he sat there for a long time just staring at it, trying to work out what was different. He'd shot eight people with this gun, only three non-fatally and he knew that number, but he couldn't for the life of him remember why he'd pulled the trigger.

He wouldn't _have _to remember this time around. He didn't know why he thought that was important, why he thought that was probably a relief.

He looked up from the gun and suddenly all he could see was green and he choked on the air that he suddenly sucked into his lungs. Ian looked at him and a small smile curved up the edges of his mouth and seemed to set everything inside of Mickey on fire.

His hand shook on the grip of the gun as he started to lift it.

"Firecrotch," he breathed out, wanting to sound stronger than he did, but Mickey didn't think he had anything close to strength in him now. Hadn't for a long time. Ian had always been the strong one, not Mickey.

Gallagher's smile grew slightly at the nickname, but there was a look in his eyes that was so incredibly sad Mickey didn't want to look any longer. Yet he couldn't look away.

"What?" he asked, hearing the question Mickey hadn't asked, but then Ian always seemed to hear all the things that Mickey didn't say, "You didn't really think I'd leave you alone at the end did you?"

He laced his fingers together with Mickey's on the gun and Mickey's hear jumped in his chest and he could feel the tears running down his cheeks, because he'd been fucking waiting for that. Just for one more touch.

Ian helped him raise the gun high enough, because Mickey had been the strong one in the beginning, when Ian had been young and soft and innocent, wielding a crow bar he'd never really had the courage to hit Mickey with. Ian was the strong one now though, his fingers didn't shake as it curved over Mickey's and around the trigger.

Mickey hadn't looked away from Ian's eyes for a second, but he closed the as Ian leant in, pressing his cool forehead against Mickey's sweaty one. Somehow Ian's forehead felt colder than the gun pressed against Mickey's temple, more solid.

They pulled the trigger together.

* * *

Mickey sat cross-legged at the end of his bed, watching Ian's eyelashes flutter slightly as he slept, like secrets were trying to escape from underneath them whilst he dreamt. He wasn't even out of his teens yet and Mickey didn't know how the fuck it was fair that he already had to live with a tightness in his chest that had him gasping for breath and trying to hold onto anything with broken, twisted fingers, he didn't know why it was him that had to suffer through the choking fear and pain and the inability to admit just for a moment what he really wanted.

He didn't know how the hell it was right that he'd already learnt how to live with all of that as much as a person possibly could do.

He just sat there, watching Ian's chest rise and fall and counting the pale freckles splattered across his face and he just wished that for maybe one moment, just one, they lived in a world where Mickey could say gay shit to Gallagher like, "_I don't think I'd ever know how to live without you_," and Ian would just know how much he really meant it.

* * *

"Who the hell pissed in your coffee this morning?" he asked Mandy after hearing her ragged breaths down the line.

She choked on a sob at his comment and he would have felt guilty if he hadn't had a serious hangover and a desire for this conversation to hurry the hell up. He loved his sister, he did, but talking to her always made him think of the past.

"Sorry," she muttered, "It's just the five year anniversary of Ian's death today."

Ian was sitting at the end of his bed the next day, not looking a day over twenty and all Mickey could really think was that he hated how he'd been living five years without Ian Gallagher in the same world, but then really, he hadn't been.

He'd been essentially the dead the moment that Ian walked out of the door and all he'd been able to say was, _"Don't…" _The fact of the matter was that Mickey didn't know how to live without Ian Gallagher, but that was because he didn't want to.


End file.
